Local Custom

by Sharon Lee

  "And yet neither are of the dramliz," the Master Healer said, firmly. "I recall when the a'thodelm was tested at Healer Hall as a child. We tested twice, for, after all, he is of Korval." She moved her shoulders and caught Korval's attentive eye.

  "Plain meat and no sauce, the a'thodelm. Yourself—you have something, my Lord. If we are ever able to quantify it, I shall tell you."

  He inclined his dark head. "You are gracious."

  "You are dangerous—but, there. It is what one expects of Korval." She turned her attention once more to Petrella.

  "Neither pretends to wizardhood, Thodelm. I suspect the only talent either ever held was the ability to recognize and meld with the other. That work has proceeded as it must—hindered, alas, by the demands of custom, melant'i—and kin. It may not be stopped, nor may it be undone." She showed her empty hands, palm up.

  "You speak of wrapping the a'thodelm in forgetfulness, of sending the lady far away. To speak of these things is to be ill-informed. If they are separated by the length and breadth of the galaxy, still they will find each other. They are lifemates, Thodelm. If your pride cannot be thwarted, you must have the lady killed—and the child, as well. Then, the a'thodelm will be free of her."

  "Yet history tells us that Master Wizard Rool Tiazan's lady lived in him after the death of her body," Korval commented from across the room.

  Kestra hid her smile with a bow. "Indeed. You understand that the tie between these two may not be so potent—or it may well be potent enough. Certainly they are both strong-willed. Certainly they both love. It may be that the areas where the match is not entirely perfect are those which are not so—very—important. Who can say?"

  There was a silence in the room. Korval shifted slightly, drawing all eyes to himself.

  "Cry grace, Aunt Petrella," he said gently. "The game has gone to chance."

  "Chance," the Terran lady murmured, a flutter of panic through her steady, beautiful pattern. "Chance without choice."

  "Choice was made," A'thodelm yos'Galan said, "several times over." He took her hand, looking earnestly up into her face. "I love you, Anne Davis."

  It thrilled along all the matrices of her pattern, resonating within his. She smiled. "I love you, Er Thom yos'Galan." The smiled faded, and she spoke again with a certain sternness. "But we still have to talk."

  "Certainly," he returned, smiling as if they were quite alone in the room. "Shall I show you the maze? We may be private there."

  "All right . . . "

  He turned back to the room, making his bows, pattern a dazzling, sensuous clatter.

  "Master Healer," he murmured, with a propriety that belied the joy ringing through him. "Mother." He turned to face Korval and checked, the clamoring joy within him stuttering.

  Carefully, silently, he bowed respect for the delm.

  Straightening, he stepped back, opened the door and allowed his lady to proceed him into the hall.

  "MASTER MERCHANT BEL'TARDA," Mr. pel'Kana announced from the doorway.

  Daav looked wearily up from his work screen.

  Luken had got a new jacket—an astonishing affair in bright blue with belled sleeves and citron buttons. The buttons flashed irritatingly when he made his bow.

  "Wine for Master bel'Tarda," Daav instructed Mr. pel'Kana and waved a hand. "Sit, cousin, do, and tell me what brings you so far from the City."

  "Well, it's not as far as that," Luken said seriously, disposing himself with unusual care in the leather chair across the desk. "Matter of an hour's travel, if you're unlucky in the route." He received his glass from Mr. pel'Kana and took the required sip, watching Daav trepidatiously over the rim.

  Daav smiled, picked up his near-empty cup and also drank, setting the thing aside as Mr. pel'Kana closed the door.

  "Well, Luken, you might as well make a clean breast, you know. I can hardly be expected to go before the Council of Clans on your behalf unless I know the awful whole."

  "Council of Clans! Here now, it's nothing—" Luken sputtered, caught himself and sighed.

  "It's no wonder the world finds us odd," he said severely, "when you go on giving rein to that sense of humor of yours."

  "Horrid, isn't it?" Daav agreed. "Now you've vented your feelings, shall you tell me what is wrong? Pat Rin?"

  "Eh? Oh, no—no. Ease your heart there—the boy's fine, though we had his mother yesterday. Why that woman insists on—Well." He glanced down and brushed an imaginary fleck of dust from one of his improbable sleeves.

  "It's about young Syntebra," he said, and raised a hurried hand. "Now, I know she's intended for Er Thom, but the thing is—well, damn it, it just won't do!"

  Daav lifted an eyebrow, momentarily diverted. "No, won't it?"

  "Terrified of him," Luken said warmly. "Of you, too, if it comes to that. Nothing against her. But she's only a child, you see—and mid-House, beside. Hardly knows how to go on in that world, much less rubbing High House shoulders. I'm not saying she can't make a success of things—but she needs more work than Er Thom's likely to have time to give. He's a busy one, and he stands too close to the delm."

  Daav looked sharply away, picked up his glass and drained it. "Does he?"

  "Well, he's your heir, isn't he? And the pair of you as cutting quick and twisty bright as any would wish—I'll tell you what, it's tiring trying to keep abreast! The girl would be miserable, lost and uncertain of herself." He eyed Daav consideringly.

  "You alarm me, cousin. I certainly would not wish one of Korval to be the agent of such distress. However, I feel sure you are about to offer me a solution to young Syntebra's troubles."

  Luken grinned, rather shamefacedly. "See through me like glass, can you? Well, it's no matter—I know I'm not a clever fellow. Here it is: I'll engage to marry Syntebra. Another child is no hardship on me—the eldest is away at school more often than she's home now-days, and Pat Rin's no trouble at all. Nexon will be put to rest and a more equitable wife can be found for Er Thom."

  "Undoubtedly, a more equitable wife can be found for Er Thom," Daav murmured, possibly to himself. He looked at Luken with a grin.

  "I take it the lady does not find yourself—aah—terrifying, cousin?"

  "Not a bit of it," Luken said comfortably and smiled. "I get on with most, after all."

  "So you do." Daav closed his eyes and resisted rubbing his aching forehead. He opened his eyes.

  "I shall speak with Thodelm yos'Galan tomorrow," he told Luken. "However, I feel certain that your solution will be adopted. Now there is an active nursery at Trealla Fantrol, Pat Rin may be relocated for the duration of your marriage." He cocked an eyebrow. "Unless you think that unwise?"

  Luken pursed his lips. "I'll speak with the boy," he said eventually, "and let you know his wishes." He sent a sharp look at Daav. "Not that he isn't fond of his cousin Er Thom, nor that young Shan doesn't look a likely child. But I would dislike going against the boy's strong inclination, if he has one."

  "Certainly." Daav inclined his head. "You do well by us, cousin," he said in sudden and sincere gratitude. "I find you honor and ornament the clan."

  Luken blushed, dark gold spreading across his cheeks. He glanced aside and picked up his glass.

  "Kind of you," he muttered, and drank.

  It took two rather hefty swallows to recover his address. He glanced at Daav.

  "I'll hear from you, then?" he said hopefully.

  Daav inclined his head. "I expect you may hear from me as soon as tomorrow."

  "Good," said Luken. "Good." He rose. "You're a busy man, so I'll be taking my leave. Thank you."

  "No trouble," Daav said, rising also and coming 'round the desk. He forestalled Luken's bow by the simple maneuver of taking him by the arm and turning him toward the door.

  "Allow me to see you to your car, cousin . . . "

  IT WAS RATHER LATE.

  Daav had no clear notion of precisely how late. He had put the lights out some time back, preferring the room in firelight while he drank a glass or two in
solitude.

  Firelight had become emberlight and the glass or two had become a bottle. Daav leaned his head against the back of his chair and thought of his brother's cold face and unwarm bow.

  Gods, what have I done?

  He closed his eyes against the emberlight and strove not to think at all.

  "You're going to have a dreadful headache tomorrow," the sweet, beloved voice commented.

  With exquisite care, Daav opened his eyes and lifted his head. Er Thom was perched on the arm of the chair across the counterchance board. Someone had thrown a fresh log on the fire. His hair gleamed in the renewed brightness like a heart's ransom.

  "I have," Daav said with a certain finicking precision, "a dreadful headache now."

  "Ah." Er Thom smiled. "I rather thought you might."

  "Have you come to cut my gizzard out?" Daav asked, dropping his head back against the chair. "I believe there's an appropriately dull knife in the wine table."

  "I don't know that I'm particularly skilled at gizzard-cutting," Er Thom said after a moment. "Shall you like some tea?"

  "Gods, at this hour? Whichever it is—" He moved a hand in negation. "No, don't disturb the servants."

  "All right," Er Thom said softly. He rose and vanished into the fringes of the firelight. A minor clatter was heard from the direction of the wine table. Daav wondered somewhat blearily if the other had decided upon the knife after all.

  "Drink with me, brother."

  Daav opened his eyes. Er Thom was before him, limned in the firelight, holding two cups.

  "Thank you," Daav said around a sudden start of tears. He accepted a cup and drank—a full mouthful—swallowed—and laughed. "Water?"

  "If you drink any more wine you're likely to fall into a snore," Er Thom commented, lifting his own glass. There was a gleam of purple on his hand.

  "Reinstated, darling?"

  "My mother attempts to accept the outcome equitably." He smiled. "She speaks of—perhaps—accepting the child."

  "Gracious of her." Daav sighed. "Will your Anne be happy with us, do you think?"

  The smile grew slightly wider. "I believe it may be contrived."

  "Hah. So long as my work as delm is not entirely confined to scrambling planetary traffic and threatening my kin with chains—" He shuddered and looked up into bright violet eyes.

  "The window was—distressing."

  Er Thom inclined his head. "I apologize for the window," he murmured. "But there is no way to close it, you see, once you are climbed through."

  Daav grinned. "I suppose that's true."

  Er Thom tipped his head. "May I know what balance the delm may require of me?"

  "Balance." Daav closed his eyes; opened them. "How shall the delm require balance, when it was he did not listen to what you would tell him?"

  Er Thom frowned. "I do not believe that to be the case," he said in his soft, serious way. "How should any of us have expected such an extraordinary occurrence? Recall that I gave nubiath'a! Indeed, it may be that such—adversity—as we met with enlivened and strengthened our bond." He bowed, slightly and with whimsy.

  "Delm's Wisdom."

  "Amuse yourself, do." Daav tried for a look of severity, but his mouth would keep twitching in a most undignified manner. He gave it up and grinned openly.

  "All's well that ends well," he quoted in Terran, "as your lady might agree. Tell her: Be fruitful and multiply."

  Er Thom laughed. "Tell her yourself. We shall want the delm to See us tomorrow, after all."

  "Whatever for? I distinctly recall Master Healer Kestra informing us that your arrangement is beyond the ken of command or Code."

  "Ah, but, you see," Er Thom said earnestly. "There is local custom to be satisfied. I would not wish to be backward in any attention the world might deem necessary."

  "Certainly not. Korval has its standards, after all."

  Er Thom laughed.

  Chapter Forty

  The first attack was a hammer-blow at the Ringstars. A dozen worlds were lost at once, including that which was home to the dramliz and the place the Soldiers call Headquarters. There was rumor of a seed-ship—as high as a hundred seed-ships—sent out from Antori in the moment before it died. Much good it may do them.

  Jela says The Enemy means to smash communications, then gobble up each isolated world in its own good time.

  Jela says anyone with a ship is a smuggler, now. And every smuggler is a soldier.

  I've never seen anything like this . . .

  —Excerpted from Cantra yos'Phelium's Log Book

  IT WAS EARLY, THE halls yet empty of scholars, save the one who walked at Er Thom's side. When they came to a certain door, he stood away, and watched her bend over the lock, quick brown fingers making short work of the coding.

  Straightening from her task, she flung him a smile and caught his hand, pulling him with her into a tiny, cluttered office smelling of book-dust and disuse.

  Just within, he paused, holding her to his side while he scanned the shabby and book-crammed interior. Satisfied that they were alone, he allowed them another step into the room, then turned to lock the door.

  Anne laughed.

  "As if we were in any danger among a crowd of fusty professors!"

  Er Thom bit his lip. Of course, she did not recall. He had not doubted the wisdom of immediately summoning a Healer to ease Anne's distress. To be abducted at gunpoint, to have one's child and one's own life threatened, to make one's bow to necessity and take a life—these things were certainly best quickly smoothed from memory and peace restored to a mind unsettled by violence.

  Yet now it seemed that in doing her the best service he might, he had placed her in the way of future peril. One madman with a gun did not necessarily argue another, but it was only wise to be wary.

  And difficult to be wary when the memory of past danger was washed clean away.

  "Er Thom?" She was frowning down at him, concern showing in her eyes. "What is it?"

  He caught her other hand in his and looked seriously into her face.

  "Anne, I wish you will recall—I am in very earnest, denubia! I wish you will recall that Liad is not a—safe place. There are those who love Terrans not at all. There are those who actively hate—who may seek to do you harm for merely being Terran, or for the direction your work takes you . . . Liadens—there is pride, you understand. It pleases many to think Liad the center of the universe and all others—lower. With some, this pleasure becomes obsession. Korval's wing is broad, but it is far better to be vigilant, and avoid rousing the delm to balance."

  "Better to be safe than sorry," Anne murmured and inclined her head. "I understand, Er Thom. Thank you." She hesitated; met his eyes once more.

  "I knew how to use a pistol, once. I'm willing to brush up and carry a gun."

  He smiled in relief. "That would be wise. I shall teach you, if you like it."

  "I like it." She grinned, squeezed his hands and let them go, crossing the room in three of her long strides and taking a framed flat-pic down from the wall between two reverent palms.

  "Er Thom," she said, as she lay the frame face down and began to ease the back away. "Aren't you Liaden?"

  He drifted over to the desk, watching her face, downturned and intent upon her task.

  "We are Korval," he said, softly. "You understand, we are not originally from the Old World—Solcintra, it was called. Cantra came from the Rim, so it states in the logs, and her co-pilot in the endeavor which raised Liad—young Tor An had been from one of the Ringstars, sent to Solcintra for schooling. Poor child, by the time his schooling was done, the Ringstars were no fit place for return."

  Anne had raised her head and was watching him intently. "Every other clan on Liad can trace its origins to—Solcintra?"

  "Yes, certainly. But Solcintra was only one world in what had been a vast empire." He smiled into her eyes. "And not a particularly—forward—world, at that."

  "You know this," she said, very carefully, "historically?"
<
br />   He bowed. "It is of course necessary for one who will be Korval Himself—and for one who may be delm—to have studied the log books of Cantra yos'Phelium, as well as the diaries of the delms who had come before."

  She bit her lip. He had a sense of—hunger?—and a realization that, for one who studied as Anne did, such information as he had just shared might be pearls of very great price.

  "One empire," she murmured. "One—language?"